


desperate times

by brawlite



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Desperation, HYDRA Trash Party, Humiliation, M/M, Piss, Watersports, as per usual: this has no merit or redeeming value whatsoever, brawlite's usual abuse of hypens, dubcon, hot power top jack rollins, self-challenge fic, this is definitely a pissfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-10
Updated: 2015-09-10
Packaged: 2018-04-20 03:31:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4771802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brawlite/pseuds/brawlite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack takes advantage of a desperate Brock and helps him let go. It doesn't hurt that he was the one who made him desperate, kept him desperate, but no one's really keeping score, right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	desperate times

**Author's Note:**

> this was more of a self challenge than anything else.
> 
> anyway, if piss isn't your thing, then this fic probably won't be your up your alley. i think it focuses more on the desperation/humiliation aspect of it, because i'm all about that, but regardless -- i don't want you to read anything you're not into!

Like a cocoon, Jacks arms bracket Brock in. The hold is unforgiving, like goddamn military grade restraints plus the cushion of some additional body heat. A second earlier, they'd been chatting. All calm and civil-like. And now Jack is all over him, on him, no holds barred. Wrangling him down like a feral cat.

"Gotta piss," Brock had excused himself. 

Just like that. 

Two words and now Brock's struggling against the firm hold of Jack's arms around his mid-section, trying to ignore that heavy gaze weighing him down, that goddamn predatory grin, full of teeth, eating up Jack's rugged face -- it's Jack's ' _I've got a plan and you're gonna to hate it'_  look. It's all he can do to also try and ignore the heavy weight of his bladder on top of knowing that Jack's got something up his sleeve and he doesn't yet feel like being a pal and sharing. 

They're in civvies, and while the fabric is softer, it's harder to move in. Too slick, too forgiving. All Brock does is shuck himself against and along Jack's lap, wriggling and struggling until he's straddling just one of Jack's thick thighs. Jack's shirt is a worn, soft flannel, and Brock's hold on it keeps slipping off, just like how his jeans keep sliding against the other man's. Both too soft, too worn, unlike their unyielding tac suits, which are heavy and thick enough they create friction against the air alone, not to mention another thigh. There's just no grip to go on, not when Jack's got such a strong hold on him.  

But Brock's gotta fucking  _piss_  -- he's gotta get up  ** _now_. ** The dread creeps over him instantaneously, now that he's got a real hold on the situation, now that Jack's got a hold of him. Jack's securing him hard and firm, his grip tight enough that it's at least a little distracting from the weight of just how fucking bad he has to go.

This close up, Brock's entire world becomes sandalwood, mint, and pine. It's all he can breathe in, along with sweat and musk -- stifling, addicting, cloying. Rollins is everywhere, all up in his space, crowding into his fucking face. Breathing into Rumlow's air. "Going somewhere, Rum'?"

Of course he'd been going somewhere. To the fucking bathroom, before he pissed  _himself_. But -- oh Jesus,  _fuck_  -- they'd literally just been talking about how the soldier nearly wet himself on the last mission, all desperation and squirming -- it isn't exactly a surprise that Jack took that as a goddamn challenge. An inspiration. 

And maybe it's Rumlow's fault, for watching the soldier like he had. Eyes trained on him, maybe even occasionally moving to push the toe of his boot to the asset's swollen bladder, just to watch him squirm. Brock had grinned, laughed. Maybe he should've ignored the kid completely, and maybe he wouldn't now be bracketed in like this by Jack's strong arms. 

"Fucking seems like I'm not." He spits out, not caring that Jack's close enough to feel it, wet and warm on his face. He digs a heel down on his second in command's foot, but it does little against the steel toed boot he's wearing. Steel toes on his day off: kind of like he'd planned on something like this, needed a little protection against the potential of Brock playing dirty.  _Fucker_. Jack's arms just tighten around Rumlow's torso and slide him slow along his thigh, closer, tighter, too personal.

He fights. He hisses out a, ' _ **No** , Jack --._" Fights until his muscles are sore and until he is more than acutely aware of his bladder, of its pressure. He struggles and squirms, bites and writhes.  Jack does not yield. Does not budge. 

Brock's building up a thin layer of sweat all over, feels too warm to the touch. He's gotta piss and it's all he can think about, the potential embarrassment of this whole fucking thing. But the fighting's not working -- it's just making the urgency spike, making it  _worse_. So, maybe Brock can wait this out. Can wait out Jack's patience, even though he's got it of a saint; and then some to spare. He's patient and predatory and -- God dammit; Brock's fucked. He can only hope that he has the patience to hold out until something more important comes up for Rollins. Like a phone call, or someone interrupting them. A national emergency. A fucking nuke breaking them to bits, together and apart and in shards. Anything to keep Brock from pissing himself in Rollins' lap and Rollins lording it over him for forever. 

As Jack catches Brock's lips in his own, unwilling and harsh, it becomes goddamn crystal clear that Jack's planning on waiting. And judging by the hardness Brock's other thigh is pushing, rocking, up against? He's enjoying this. Immensely. 

Brock squirms, jolts backward again in an unwise, but necessary attempt at escape, only to be stymied by Jack's strong arms. His bladder smarts and complains and he groans, relaxing forward for a second into Jack's shoulder. Face pushed up his neck with a groan and a curse. "No, let me up -- God, fuck you." His voice is rough, diluted. Feels like there's water up to his ears. 

Well, this explains why Jack's been plying him with liquids for the past couple hours. In hindsight, it's all pretty clear. 

He shouldn't've waited. He should've gone when he needed to, a while ago. Too late now. 

That doesn't stop Jack from making him wait longer, though. And he's just stuck here, Jack's arms around him, his lips exploring the parts of Brock's body he can reach, all while Brock alternates between squirming, fighting, and staying stock still. 

He tries not to dwell on how full he is, how uncomfortable his midsection is, how embarrassing this is.

His jeans are too restrictive. 

Belt, too tight. 

Jack's flannel shirt is too soft under his cheek when he leans forward and groans into it, frustrated. It smells like Jack, soft and warm and spicy. He curses and bites a sizable chunk of Jack's neck, just hard enough to leave a bright red ring of tooth marks. Each and every muscle in his body aches, drifts, pins him to Rollins -- a sweaty mess. He's acutely aware of his whole body now, his whole existence suddenly zeroing in, centering in his lower abdomen. Throbbing. 

Jack pulls him close and grinds his leg upward, dragging a groan out of Brock. Ignores the bite to his neck. Rollins mouth's his ear and coos, "You a little uncomfortable?" He ignores everything over torturing the man in his lap. It's fucking humiliating, and Brock can only count his lucky stars that no one else is here to witness this. To witness  _him_. 

Because the truth of it--

The truth of it is that sure, Jack's holding him down, valiantly fighting against Brock's attempts at freedom, but -- Brock isn't trying all that hard. He's a captain of a goddamn STRIKE team, for fuck's sake; he's capable of more. Jack's strong, but if Brock's life depended on it, he could fight his way out of this, no problem. He could end Jack, if he had to. The problem is that his pride, priceless and as stubborn as it is, can't hold a candle to just how turned on he is. 

Nothing can win over just how much he wants this, as fucking humiliating as that is.

The thought that he  _likes_  Jack holding him down, keeping him squirming against his second in command's lap, fucking desperate and groaning, has Brock cursing again into Jack's neck -- strangling out a noise between a whimper and a groan. It has him shoving roughly at Rollins' chest at another aborted attempt to free himself. It has him catching Jack's lips in his own and kissing him like he can no longer breathe. 

And Jack indulges him, because he's nice like that. Giving. He wraps his long fingers around Brock's wrists and pulls him close, kisses him hot and heavy and hard. Makes it so Brock can't fight, he's being held too tightly. He licks into Brock's mouth until his lips are slick and dripping. Jack gives him a good couple of minutes of respite before he gently starts moving his leg again, up and down, rocking Brock against and with it. Brock can barely stifle the whimper that rises in his throat.

"F-uck, Rollins --" He doesn't know what to say, doesn't know what will add fuel to the fire and what might put it out -- doesn't know which one of those scenarios he wants. He just wants to fucking  _piss_. "--  ** _Don't._** "   
Jack's laugh is deep and rumbling in his ear, warm. "Don't what, Rum', don't make you piss yourself?" He laughs again, pressing those wet lips right under Brock's ear. "Looks to me like you're enjoying yourself." He rocks his leg up again and grinds Brock down hard, wrangling a half moan from his captain. Brock can feel his need everywhere now, in all his limbs, his bladder aching for some sort of release. His cock's half hard -- stuck between wanting to fuck and wanting to piss. Wanting both at the same goddamn time. And wouldn't that be something.

"Fucking come  _on_ , Jack." Brock grouses, rocking his hips forward. Shoves at him. Still making aborted efforts to get up and off and away. And Jack, all smiles and laughs, finally relents a little. Sure, he keeps one arm around Brock, bracketing him in, but he gets his other hand free and palms Brock through his pants. The friction is hard and hot and has Rumlow rocking his hips forward, letting out a wet gasp against Jack's neck. It's too much, but he needs it. He needs those fingers around his cock, even if all he can feel is fucking pain in his bladder. Maybe, maybe if Jack gets him off, he'll let Rumlow up. Maybe he won't. 

The  _'no'_ dies on his lips and ends up twisted into a ' _please'_ coupled with a moan. Jack just laughs and pops his jeans open, unzipping him smoothly to work his hand inside. He's not gentle, if only because he spends too much time pressing the heel of his hand back and into Brock's bladder. Mean. After too many 'accidental' pushes, Rumlow hisses and squirms away -- or tries, anyway, just backs firm against Jack's arm. "What's wrong, princess, what's got you squirming like that?" Rollins plays dumb and sweet, just because he can, because he thinks he's hot shit. And fuck if it doesn't get Brock running even hotter, Jack talking to him like that, whispering in his ear and kissing along his jawline like he's a goddamn doll. 

Rollins drags his fingers up Brock's now exposed dick, gets him the rest of the way hard, occasionally stopping to press teasing fingertips to his lower abdomen. "You alright baby? Yeah -- yeah, you're alright. You're just a little worked up, is all. I got you, though" Jack's voice is hot and low, a particular familiar raspy quality to it giving away just how invested he is in this little scenario of his. He likes Brock over his lap, squirming and panting and moaning -- and yeah, maybe it's a little more than hot, just how into this Jack is. 

It doesn't take long for Jack to spit in his hand and get his fingers around Brock's girth, all the while Brock's just got his fingers tight in that soft flannel shirt of Jack's. Isn't like he's about to turn down a free hand job, anyway, even if he does have to piss. Even if it's killing him, the dread eating him alive, just like Jack's doing. Occasionally, Rollins'll stop for a second or two and just let his fingertips push gently against Brock's belly. Slow. Teasing. Every time, it gets Brock squirming again, mumbling out a "Fuck no," against Jack's shoulder, or into his neck. 

He barely complains when Jack starts rearranging him, if only because the change of positions might do something to alleviate the pressure in him, his need. Jack keeps a firm hold on his neck the whole time, only letting go when Brock's settled over both of his legs, straddling him, absolutely in the tactically worst position imaginable. His feet aren't even touching the fucking ground. Unsurprisingly, it doesn't help. It only has him folding in a way that makes the pressure worse and he can't help but grunt and squirm, trying to make it better. Jack grabs him by the dick, distracts him. Works him until he's hard again, even though it hurts.

"Let's get you comfy." And Brock bites out a curse, because he knows it's only going downhill from there. Rollins' calloused hands work his jeans down, just enough to expose his ass to the chill of fresh air. "There, all better, see?" He practically sing-songs the words, all the more for Brock's embarrassment. Like he's taking care of a child, like Rumlow's fucking helpless. 

Though, at this point, Jack's made him pretty fucking helpless.

It's hard to do much of anything, though, once Jack grabs him by the throat and runs his palm over Brock's cock with his free hand. He lets the heel of his hand scrape rough against the head of Brock's dick while his fingertips press down on his lower abdomen, gently kneading the flesh there. Occasionally he'll let his fingers wrap around Rumlow, give him a good couple tugs, but he doesn't let up on his little game. He tightens his grip on Brock's throat with a grin, pulls him into a sloppy kiss to distract him, keep his mind off everything. Every time Jack's fingertips dig in a little harder and every time, Brock's fucking terrified he's going to piss himself. Make a mess all over his second in command's lap.

He imagines it, the humiliation of warmth flooding over Jack's huge thighs while Brock can barely breathe, Jack's fingers tightening even worse over his throat once he feels the warmth. No -- no, he can't let that happen.

"Fucking let me -- go," His words come out strained and coarse without air, painted with want and something close to panic. He squirms, balks, pushes against Jack -- even goes so far as to grab at Jack's hair and tug it back. But Jack's used to wrangling wild animals, said he spent some time on a farm back in the day, and he keeps Rumlow steady and secure, all while not breaking a sweat. All he does is yank Brock further up his own lap, clothed dick practically brushing up against Brock's. Jack's close enough to sneer at him through white teeth, for Brock to smell what is distinctly Jack. 

"You ain't going anywhere, baby." His voice is pitched low, crooning -- still treating Brock like an animal. Or a child. "You gotta go that bad, 'Rum? That's okay, I understand, princess." He croons, presses a kiss just under Brock's ear and then licks a stripe up the cartilage, tongue flat and wet. Dripping. Brock can feel the moisture drying on his ear already, cooling as it hits the air, and it's torture. "I understand if you can't hold it, big fuckin' boy like you, it's gotta happen sometime or another -- you're distracted, it's happens." 

Rumlow shivers, unsure if it's the drying spit, the pressure, Jack's tone or his words that spurn the feeling spreading entirely down his spine, triggering goosebumps all over. Jack runs his palm over Brock's lower abdomen again, gentle but firm, feeling how he's bloated and uncomfortable. The movement makes Rumlow hiss a breath in through his teeth and rock his hips forward, dick grinding against Jack's at the same time as he presses even closer to Jack's palm, increasing the pressure. "Please, Jack," The words are out of him before he can even think about how humiliating it is to plead. But it's all about priorities here, trying to avoid the most humiliating option. 

Jack laughs, and Brock echoes himself again with another strained  _please_ while he presses lips to Jack's neck. "Don't fucking do this." It's an order from a superior officer, but Brock's voice is shaky as he says it and it's like the words die on the way to Jack's ears. 

"Do what?" Jack takes his hand, easing his fingers into Brock's mouth, getting them nice and spit-slick. He's messy, thorough, doesn't leave any of Brock's mouth unexplored. "I'm just taking care of you. Someone has to -- you're a mess. Clearly can't take care of yourself." He deems his fingers done after a certain point, after Brock is dripping spit onto his chest, and Jack nabs him for a quick and messy kiss. 

"C'mon, baby." Jack's voice, in his ear, as he works Brock open, finger by finger, spit and some pocketed gun oil for lube. It's wet, sloppy, and noisy, and Brock fucking  _aches._ Squirms. Drags in a halted breath against Jack's shoulder, his whole body shivering. With each finger Jack presses slowly into him, the fuller Brock feels. And by now, three fat fingers in, he's totally full up. Jack'd taken his time, made Brock aching hard. The sensations are competing, spikes of pain turning into pleasure before he can really acknowledge them. 

His head is swimming with stimulation, drowning out just about any reasonable thoughts he has. Brock grinds down, hears Jack laugh, a pleased and rumbling sound. "Yeah, Rum'. Common, baby, grind down for me. Work that fucking ass. I know you're good for something."

When Jack presses down on his abdomen again, palm flat and near scalding, Brock almost screams. The sound is aborted halfway, cut off by a need to flee. There's no hand on his neck keeping him in place anymore, but he's not going anywhere. Not with Jack, three fingers deep and kneading his bladder from the outside. Pressing up from the inside.

"Let go, princess. You're so full up, you know how good it'd feel." And god, there's nothing that Brock wants both more and less. He wants to let go, wants the pressure to stop, but he can't -- he fucking can't piss himself on top of Jack, get them both wet and warm. Too embarrassing, he'd never live it down. 

Before he can respond, Jack just keeps talking, running his mouth like usual. "Like a fucking baby, just can't control yourself. Need someone to take care of you," He chuckles, kneads his fingers down and twists his others deep inside Rumlow, pushing up. "Think about it: a commander, reduced to pieces like this. Tell me, Rum', what is it that's got you so hot, got your dick dripping -- me fingering you like a needy bitch, or the fact that you're going to wet yourself on my lap, make a big fuckin' mess?"

It's a surprise, when it happens, when he feels the humiliating first rush of released pressure, of his bladder momentarily surrendering. It's just a little bit, but it's unmistakable. He groans, feeling the hot splash against his chest. A little like jizz, but so much worse -- wetter and hotter. Jack doesn't miss it either. He grins like a hyena and catches Brock's lips with his own, only stopping the work with his hands for a second before he keeps going. "Fuck yeah, give it to me, princess. Let go. You're so goddamn pathetic, pissing yourself like this. --- But I got you, I got you, Brock. Gonna fucking take care of you." He peppers the words with kisses, eventually gives in and palms Brock's dick flat, still digging his fingers into his bladder. So -- so he can feel it, of course, when Brock finally breaks.

And that -- that's what does it. It's pathetic, Jack's right, but god: the way's Jack's talking, the way he's kneading Brock's skin. He can't think straight, can't wrap his mind around anything other than all of the sensations -- how good it felt to let go, just that little bit, and how good it'll feel when he lets it all go. Jack's fingers twist inside him again, press upward and scissor, open him up real wide, and that's it.  Brock crumples into him, leans forward and buries his head in Jack's neck when he feels himself finally let go. He whimpers, half for the humiliation and half for how goddamn good it feels, piss starting to streaming out of him. He shakes, shivers -- can't stop the flow, doesn't think he even wants to.

He relishes the feeling for a moment, the sudden rush of pleasure he gets from the release, before he realizes just what he's doing. His piss is hot against sweat-slick flesh, un-ignorable, directed straight at his own chest with the way Jack's pressing down on his dick. His fingers slowly knead Brock's bladder, dip a little into the stream of liquid as his palm glides slick over Brock's half-hard dick. And god, Jack's just fucking playing with it, letting the piss run over his fingers before it hits Brock's shirt, drips down onto his naked lap. He groans, the release still getting the best of him, but overshadowed now by the sheer humiliation, the wetter and wetter he gets. His jeans, pushed back as they are, are not immune. Neither are Jack's, underneath him. He can feel their clothes starting to soak it all up, get water-logged with his piss. He can hear some of it drip down and hit the floor. "Fuck -- fuck yeah, Brock, give it to me, let it all go. Look'it you, you're a wreck, a goddam mess." Jack's voice sounds rough in his ear, more affected than Brock's ever heard him sound, and a little surprised, even. "Such a good boy, doing what I told you."

And Brock doesn't have any words, hasn't for a while now. He's still going, his bladder continuing to sing in relief, his whole body feeling lighter. The flow is lightening up, but Brock still keeps his face pressed agains Jack's neck -- half because he needs the support and half because he can't bear to look at himself; feeling it is bad enough. He's a mess. He's made Jack a mess. He's a commanding officer in SHIELD, in HYDRA, pissing himself on his second in command's lap, soaking them both. It's deplorable, disgusting. A moan escapes him as his hips rock forward slightly, rutting against Jack's palm. Jack chuckles and coos right in his ear, all affection and warmth, "Don't worry, I got you."

Jack wrings the last few drops of piss out of him with a hand on his dick, fingers easy as they wrap around his cock and gives him a good couple of tugs. The fingers in Brock's ass start working again, wet enough that he doesn't think about why, can't think about it. "You were so good for me, princess." Jack says, biting at Brock's ear, "I've got a treat for you, for being so good." And that's it: Jack wants to break him, wants Brock to fall apart in pieces in his lap. Wants to create his own disaster, and Brock has no way to stop him, no means, no will.

It's embarrassing, just how few strokes Brock needs to get off, just how quick he comes to pieces. Before he can even feel it sneak up on him, he's spilling himself into Jack's hand, gasping and groaning, surprised by his own release. The pleasure washes over him, enlightening every nerve for what feels like a second time in the last few minutes. It's too much. 

The time it takes for him to come back to himself, still breathing heavily, seems to creep on for forever. All the while, Jack's crooning in his ear, peppering his skin with little bites and kisses, more affectionate than he ever is. More proud -- of Brock or himself, that isn't clear. 

"I'm going to ruin you," Rumlow's voice is shaky, but there's a cool venom behind his words. Any gratitude for the pleasure that just wracked his body has been pushed back, pushed into a dark corner of his mind, never to be brought out again -- maybe. When he can feel his legs, he'll make Jack eat dirt, make him swallow a couple of teeth. 

A warm, damp hand rubs gentle circles on his back, smoothing out the wrinkles of his shirt, smoothing out a little bit of Brock's anger. "Yeah. Yeah, 'course you will, Rum'."

**Author's Note:**

> i would greatly appreciate any comments, because this was a first-time-thing for me.
> 
> thanks again to my porn fairy who helps me with the dirty talk. <3
> 
> also, lets be real, if you know anything about me (i.e., if you've read [coincidences](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3339212/chapters/7303202)), you _know_ that i love me some revenge two-parters...
> 
> find me on [tumblr](http://brawlite.tumblr.com).


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